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Authors: Jonathan Coe
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been intrigued, no doubt about it: not that the case itself presented any special features of interest, apart from the fact that she rather liked her client, but her appetite for work had been stronger then. Now she was already beginning to feel sapped.
Alison brought the coffee in and lingered unnecessarily over the pending tray.
‘Shit,’ Emma thought. ‘She feels sorry for me, and now she’s going to say something.’
‘Anything I can give you a hand with? Things are a bit quiet next door.’
On the point of saying no, Emma hesitated, and then changed course:
‘You could file these things away,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’
It was for the pleasure of watching her work, as much as anything else. Alison had been with them for nearly two years: soon she would be taking her articles. She was a neat, dark-haired, dark-eyed woman, and for some time now Emma had been taking quiet, almost surreptitious enjoyment in the way she moved with a rather diffident grace about the office, the angle of her head as she talked, the lightness and quickness of her fingers as they handled a document or opened an envelope. Sometimes she wondered why they were not better friends. There had been an evening when she had invited Alison back home, Alison and her then boyfriend, some student, and the four of them had had quite a pleasant dinner, around the kitchen table; the wine had been warm and fruity and Mark had been very charming. She recalled, with sudden clarity, the fragments of orange pith which she had seen caught between his teeth as he laughed, over the coffee. But friendship needs more fertile soil than is provided by the merely social occasion, and there remained a barrier between Emma and Alison which Emma, for one, had never been able to define, let alone cross: and now, for all her need, seemed as unlikely a time as any.
‘Alison,’ she began, none the less.
‘Yes?’
Words made a tired effort to rise; then sank.
‘Do you fancy,’ she ended up saying, ‘coming for a drink, Friday lunchtime, at Port’s?’
Alison shook her head.
‘Friday’s out. I’ve got to go down to Northampton, remember?’
‘Oh, of course.’
Emma sipped her coffee and licked the rim of the mug absently. She had forgotten about that.
∗
Port’s was a basement wine bar in the estate-agent district of the city. On Fridays you always got quite a few legal people in there, as well as the crowd from the building society next door, but it was rarely very full. Emma waited on the doorstep for a while, oddly reluctant to broach that dark interior. The city centre had looked surprisingly gentle and cheerful; she had thought how nice it would have been to spend the lunch hour on a bench in the park, with a few sandwiches and a trashy newspaper. It seemed a long time since she had done anything so unpredictable. Even seeing Alun again seemed predictable. She might have known that it would end up happening, and she supposed that he would probably try the same old tricks.
She let the breeze play on her face for a few more seconds, then turned and went inside.
It was dark and hot, but there was no music playing – that was something. Misspelt notices in chalk advertised the day’s bargains in salads and Beaujolais. Emma felt, as she descended the stairs, the absurdity of having worn such high heels – they seemed so noisy and impractical – and found that she was clutching her handbag to her bosom with a fervour which would have made her nervousness obvious had she not checked herself in time. Briefly she wished, very hard, that she was somewhere, anywhere else.
Alun was sitting at a table for two in the corner, his briefcase keeping the second chair occupied. Blue striped shirt, red tie, the same light grey suit. But the moustache had gone; and he looked thinner, considerably thinner, since she had last been with him. Tall, too, when he rose to his feet and smiled his yellow smile of welcome at her.
‘Emma. You look charming. You are
Alison brought the coffee in and lingered unnecessarily over the pending tray.
‘Shit,’ Emma thought. ‘She feels sorry for me, and now she’s going to say something.’
‘Anything I can give you a hand with? Things are a bit quiet next door.’
On the point of saying no, Emma hesitated, and then changed course:
‘You could file these things away,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’
It was for the pleasure of watching her work, as much as anything else. Alison had been with them for nearly two years: soon she would be taking her articles. She was a neat, dark-haired, dark-eyed woman, and for some time now Emma had been taking quiet, almost surreptitious enjoyment in the way she moved with a rather diffident grace about the office, the angle of her head as she talked, the lightness and quickness of her fingers as they handled a document or opened an envelope. Sometimes she wondered why they were not better friends. There had been an evening when she had invited Alison back home, Alison and her then boyfriend, some student, and the four of them had had quite a pleasant dinner, around the kitchen table; the wine had been warm and fruity and Mark had been very charming. She recalled, with sudden clarity, the fragments of orange pith which she had seen caught between his teeth as he laughed, over the coffee. But friendship needs more fertile soil than is provided by the merely social occasion, and there remained a barrier between Emma and Alison which Emma, for one, had never been able to define, let alone cross: and now, for all her need, seemed as unlikely a time as any.
‘Alison,’ she began, none the less.
‘Yes?’
Words made a tired effort to rise; then sank.
‘Do you fancy,’ she ended up saying, ‘coming for a drink, Friday lunchtime, at Port’s?’
Alison shook her head.
‘Friday’s out. I’ve got to go down to Northampton, remember?’
‘Oh, of course.’
Emma sipped her coffee and licked the rim of the mug absently. She had forgotten about that.
∗
Port’s was a basement wine bar in the estate-agent district of the city. On Fridays you always got quite a few legal people in there, as well as the crowd from the building society next door, but it was rarely very full. Emma waited on the doorstep for a while, oddly reluctant to broach that dark interior. The city centre had looked surprisingly gentle and cheerful; she had thought how nice it would have been to spend the lunch hour on a bench in the park, with a few sandwiches and a trashy newspaper. It seemed a long time since she had done anything so unpredictable. Even seeing Alun again seemed predictable. She might have known that it would end up happening, and she supposed that he would probably try the same old tricks.
She let the breeze play on her face for a few more seconds, then turned and went inside.
It was dark and hot, but there was no music playing – that was something. Misspelt notices in chalk advertised the day’s bargains in salads and Beaujolais. Emma felt, as she descended the stairs, the absurdity of having worn such high heels – they seemed so noisy and impractical – and found that she was clutching her handbag to her bosom with a fervour which would have made her nervousness obvious had she not checked herself in time. Briefly she wished, very hard, that she was somewhere, anywhere else.
Alun was sitting at a table for two in the corner, his briefcase keeping the second chair occupied. Blue striped shirt, red tie, the same light grey suit. But the moustache had gone; and he looked thinner, considerably thinner, since she had last been with him. Tall, too, when he rose to his feet and smiled his yellow smile of welcome at her.
‘Emma. You look charming. You are
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